Goodbye to a Dear Friend

Jeff died Saturday. He wasn’t an average guy. For more than ten years, he sat on a bench at the corner of Rosecrans and Avenida de Portugal in the Point Loma area of San Diego. He was there for the millennium change. He sat there every Christmas morning. He rang in every New Year on the bench. Summers, winters, holidays, rain or shine, he was sitting on his bench. As you might imagine, he was different.

When darkness filled the night, Jeff would pick up the bag holding all of his earthly possessions and disappear into the shadows where he would stealthily spread his sleeping bag on the ground hidden away from any and all curious eyes. Shortly after first light, Jeff was back on his bench for another day of silent vigilance.

Despite the fact that my mountain climbing days are well behind me, I still try to stay in reasonable physical condition. Among my routines is my daily four to five mile walk, usually close to dawn’s first light. Lisa and I first saw Jeff on one of our morning walks many years ago and wondered why he was always sitting in the same place. We asked neighbors who’d lived in the area long before we arrived. As often as not, we were told they’d seen him sitting there for years, but knew nothing about him other than he was “. . . just some crazy guy.”

When people wandered by, Jeff would avoid eye contact, say nothing, look the other way and do his best to become invisible. It was clear he simply wanted to be left alone and he never bothered anyone. He never looked directly at us and never said a word. He did succeed in firing up my curiosity.

Day after day, we would walk. I began waving hello each time I passed. For weeks, there was no response. Finally one morning, his hand flicked slightly upward with a furtive response. He had acknowledged my greeting and returned it. Strange as it may seem, a bond of friendship was formed. For the better part of a year, we would exchange waves. After a while I would catch him actually initiating the act. He wasn’t very demonstrative, but he shared a small act of human kindness each day. To others, he remained invisible. We nicknamed our friend “the Mayor” and began referring to the corner on which he sat as his office.

Nearly a year passed without a word being exchanged. One morning when walking by a Winchell’s Donut shop, I wondered if the Mayor would enjoy a hearty bear’s claw. I bought one. On the return trip home I approached the Mayor and asked if he’d like a sweet roll. “Yea. That sounds good,” he said. “Thanks.” I handed him the roll, turned and walked away. From that point on and for many years to come, we’d buy him a sweet roll once or twice a week. Occasionally, we’d bring him a dessert after having dinner at one of the local restaurants. His favorite morning treat was a cheese bagel from the grocery store bakery. We usually tried to get him things that weren’t too difficult to chew. He only had one tooth.

The Mayor never failed to express his gratitude when given something. Over the many years we knew him, he never – not once – asked for anything. The relationship was pure. There were no expectations, no quid-pro-quo, no demands, no deals, no obligations. It was the perfect relationship. He gave us the freedom to do good things without any conditions. There were no hidden agendas, no politics, no debts; just acts of friendship and giving. The freedom to act without conditions was totally liberating.

When we got to know him better, we would engage in conversations of unparalleled intrigue. Many related to health in general and the Mayor’s health in particular. Although he had but one tooth in his mouth, he was in the process of growing all of them back. We never understood the details of the process, but it was apparently quite slow. He still had only one the day he died. He had a steel rod leading from his gall bladder to his heart. We never learned how it grew there, but he was certain it did. The best treatment for the condition was to eat lots of soup made of broccoli and Velveeta cheese. Another time, the Mayor was inflicted with antlers. He had to eat right to prevent them from developing into a full blown handicap. Many of his ailments related to anesthetic he had been given at some time in the past; he was certain of this. The last couple of weeks of his life, his hands were terribly swollen. We thought they showed some signs of fluid retention and congestive heart failure. We encouraged him to see a doctor. He assured us everything would be alright because the swelling was due to the bugs that were living inside his hands as a result of nuclear bomb testing in the past. Maybe he was right.

The Mayor would talk economics with us from time to time. I learned a lot on the topic from him. Did you know that some banks only let you open an account if you have a one million dollar bill? He even showed me a picture of one he had clipped from a magazine. Other times he would share with us the knowledge of the government spies that were coming in on ships to watch us. I promised him we would be vigilant.

He said his name was Jeff, but we’d heard his real name was David. One day I asked him if he had ever been “David”. He explained he’d always been Jeff. He went on to say it was possible to become someone else, but it took seven years and a series of strange rituals and activities. When the process was completed, you were in fact a completely different person. I suspect he was telling the truth. He had always been Jeff, at least ever since he became Jeff. I’m not sure what ever happened to the other guy.

His life view was a source of entertainment to us. Once, before leaving for England, I stopped and told him we wouldn’t be seeing him for the next month. I asked him if there was anything he’d like us to bring him back from England. He looked up from his bench with a curious look in his eyes and said, “I don’t know. What do they have?”

He always wore long pants, boots, a heavy, hooded coat and sun glasses. The sun glasses were in place even after the sun had long fled the sky. The coat was always on, even when the dog days of summer brought temperatures into the eighties. I’m sure he had his reasons, no doubt health related. Despite his obsession with health, he smoked almost continuously. I never asked him if tobacco affected him differently than it did others; I didn’t think it would make a difference. At times he would run across the street, leaving his bag of belongings behind. He would return with vegetables and other healthy foods. One time, my mother had given us a bag of Doritos loaded with salt and high fructose corn syrup, the kind of food we try to avoid. We took it to the Mayor. He thanked us and began reading the list of ingredients. He handed it back and said he didn’t eat things that were so unhealthy. Most people thought he was crazy. We’re not so sure.

The Mayor died suddenly in his office last Saturday. His name was Jeff. Few people knew him. Many feared him. Others suffered his presence silently. We were delighted he invited us into his world. Like you and I, he was a singular point in the fabric of life we call humanity. He was our friend. And we’re going to miss him terribly.